


Just a Dream

by SgtLeppard



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Happy Ending, O'Brien is mentioned, like literally - Freeform, the proper fucking happy ending this book deserved, to help clear up some confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SgtLeppard/pseuds/SgtLeppard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winston's nightmare finally comes to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for happy endings, so naturally I felt compelled to write this

_2 + 2 = 5._

_War is peace._

_Freedom is slavery._

_Ignorance is strength._

_He loved Big Brother._

Winston awoke with a start, sweat beginning to mat his beloved Abbey Road sleep shirt to his skin. What the hell was that? Was he dreaming? Looking beside him, his wife Julia slept soundly, locks of her dark brown hair covering her face. Sighing softly with relief at seeing her, he carefully slid out of bed and looked at his surroundings. No, this was not the decrepit old flat he imagined he lived in. It was the lovely two-storey house he and Julia had purchased shortly after they returned from their honeymoon a few months ago. The clock read 03:12, and the calendar on the wall read 11 November, 1984. Sunday morning then. There was no telescreen in the room, and hence no annoying propaganda programmes to be heard.

He could also clearly remember certain key events in his life. The United Kingdom still had a reigning queen, Queen Elizabeth II. The Beatles broke up in 1970. World War II was long over, but a cold war still ensued. Elvis Presley died in 1977. Neil Armstrong walked on the moon in 1969.

Stepping into the washroom just across the hall, he turned the tap, splashing cold water on his face, then looked himself in the mirror. He wasn't as dirty and ruined as he dreamed he was. His dirty blonde hair was disheveled, he assumed from so much tossing and turning, and he was not any fatter nor slimmer than he thought. Turning the tap off and drying his face off with a washcloth, he padded downstairs to the family room. Everything looked normal. Nothing looked like it was grimy or falling apart. He turned on the television and flipped through the channels. BBC World News, a Doctor Who rerun, a Def Leppard interview from the year previous replaying for late night audiences, a late night airing of Ghostbusters. To his relief, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Winston? What are you doing up?"

Turning his head, he caught sight of Julia, who must've woken up when he turned the TV on. "The worst of nightmares one can have," he replied, going to her and pulling her in an embrace. He then began to tell her what he dreamed about, of the Party, Ingsoc, O'Brien, the Thought Police, the blind following of Big Brother, the insane propaganda.

"That's terrifying," Julia said, shocked at what she heard. "Thankfully it never happened." Indeed it was something to be thankful for. Then she digressed a bit. "Speaking of O'Brien, I checked the voicemail. He phoned a couple of hours ago."

"What did he say?"

She shrugged a bit. "Something about seeing the Nightmare on Elm Street movie." As always, Winston thought. First Friday the 13th, now Nightmare on Elm Street. "Him and his horror film fanaticism," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Do you think it'll be interesting?"

"I've no idea, it only came out two days ago."

Julia hummed, "Could be why he wants to see it today. Cinema won't be so packed." As is the old adage of seeing a movie in theatres. Go see the film a few days after it's been released when the crowding has died down. She opened her mouth to speak again until she took notice of the television. "Ghostbusters? Really?"

"What?"

Julia giggled, "I ain't afraid of no ghost." Winston chuckled with her and turned the television off, replying, "Listen. Do you smell something?" She laughed outright, then tugged at her husband's shirt. "Come back to bed, love."

The pair returned upstairs to their bedroom and held each other tight under the thick comforter that shielded them from the November cold. Winston smiled to himself as he slowly drifted back to sleep. Indeed it had never happened. Ingsoc did not exist. Newspeak did not exist. The Party did not exist. Big Brother did not exist. And perhaps the greatest part, there was no such thing as the Thought Police.

It was just a dream.


End file.
